Surely, This Is A Joke
by Screaming Faeries
Summary: Who was Barty to pass up on friendship from the Slytherin Seeker? Especially when everyone else so seemingly hated him. BartyCJR/RegB Hogwarts central. Oneshot.


**A.N****:** Please be kind. It's my first time ficcing Harry Potter :)

* * *

Barty was never one to follow in his fathers footsteps.

Bartemius Crouch Sr rarely paid his son any attention. He was intent on catching Death Eaters and the infamous Voldemort. Also with the added pleasures of working for the higher end of the Ministry and hopes for becoming the minister, he barely spared time for his younger.

It made Barty Crouch Junior almost glad to be leaving for Hogwarts, when he received the letter shortly after his eleventh birthday.

Of course, Barty's sorting into Slytherin was ignored by his father. Though Barty didn't spend much time conferring thoughts and discussions with the ministry man, his mother had often told Barty that she was in Ravenclaw, as was his father, and it would be wonderful, should Barty follow in their footsteps...

As he headed towards the Slytherin table on that first day, he put the sorting down to his faith in doing the complete opposite to his father's wishes.

But remorse and sorrow proceeded, and he did feel slightly apologetic towards his mother....she was the one that fed and clothed him, after all, and even if she did pay more attention to his father, she was still always the one who stroked his fair hair through the night, should he have a particularly scary nightmare; always the one who brought him secret pumpkin pastries from the local store, stowed underneath her apron until she was safely inside his dark room to give them to her delighted son.

He missed his mother, of course he missed his mother. And he missed the female house-elf too, Winky. She was always kind to him.

Barty never expected to make friends. He was a closed kind of person, and the fact that he was in Slytherin house, with sons and daughters of Death Eaters surrounding him, and his father was mostly always the reason for those Death Eaters getting sentenced to Azkaban or worse, made Barty's popularity status all the more receding.

So he resorted to studying. The majority of his free time was spent in the library, much to Madam Pince's distaste. She never liked students, and it seemed she didn't like Barty even more, as he spent so much time in her library. By his second year Barty knew far more than someone of twelve should know about magic, dark magic, herbology, potions, and every other subject taught, should know. Staff and students alike were already beginning to consider whether Barty had been placed in the wrong house, but Dumbledore was reluctant to believe that the Sorting Hat was wrong.

On his fifteenth birthday, Barty finally gave up in hoping that his family would have sent him something. Even a card would have been nice. It was worse; as he was lacking in friends, no one knew of the day, no one gave a damn, in fact. When everyone had headed out of the Slytherin dormitory that one winter morning of his birthday, Barty stood in front of a long mirror and took a good long look at his appearance.

Before now, he hadn't noticed much of a change since he started school. But there was. Before, underfed and underloved Barty was small, skinny. By his third year he still looked like a first year, his weight improving but his height remaining stupidly short. But since his fourth year, puberty finally started to kick in, and he was glad to have a height improvement. It wasn't much; he didn't tower above his classmates, but it was better than nothing.

Barty growled in his throat, and wondered why he was wasting his studying time on vanity. It was the Christmas holidays, he heard nothing from his parents of wanting a visit from him, so he was setting it down on revising for his OWLs. He was taking _twelve_. They didn't match his views on opposing his uncaring father, but why waste all the knowledge?

That night, when Barty huddled in his cold, green-sheeted four poster bed, he was more than surprised at sudden warmth grabbing at his covers and crawling in behind him. He coughed loudly and deliberately to prove his consciousness; his intruder better have a good explanation for sneaking into his bed.

The smooth whisper of the sixth-year Slytherin Quidditch seeker swept to his ears. "Rabastan Lestrange put a Meteolojinx on my bed. It's raining."

"You can't sleep in my bed," Barty's voice was less than quiet.

"Shut up, idiot," Regulus Black prodded him hard in his lower back. "Do you want everyone to think you're gay as well as a ministry-sucker?"

"I don't suck the ministry..." muttered Barty, his voice laced with annoyance.

"I didn't say you did."

Barty decided to ignore him. Pity, Regulus had other ideas.

"Why aren't you on the Quidditch team, Crouch?"

"I don't play sports," Barty replied in a hushed whisper.

"Clearly...so what did you do today while everyone _else _was playing Quidditch?"

Barty raised his eyebrows to the curtain opposite him. Why would anyone play Quidditch in the freezing conditions this winter had to offer? "Celebrated."

"Celebrated...?"

"My birthday."

There was a small silence, in which he assumed the older boy was blinking at Barty's back. "Oh. Happy Birthday. Fifteen right? You're in the fifth year."

Even though Barty had just told him that it was his birthday, and it wasn't a surprise or anything, the words coming from someone else's mouth spread like a summer warmth through his chest. "Yeah..." he replied, keeping his glee contained.

"Why don't you go home in the holidays?"

Barty had to struggle not to tell him to mind his own business, with various other curse words to be included. "...I'd rather not discuss it. Why don't _you_?"

"My mother says she'd rather I stayed and watched my brother. He refuses to go home."

Barty fell silent.

"You don't talk a lot."

"I've never really had reason to." And it was true; this was the first time in all five years of his schooling that someone had engaged in a conversation with Barty, someone who wasn't a teacher, and didn't want to beat the crap out of him for being in Slytherin with a father like his.

Regulus was clearly thinking the same thing, as he sighed, not falsely. "You're not anything like your snitching father, are you, Crouch?"

"Not at all."

"I didn't think you were."

"Hm?"

"You wouldn't be put in Slytherin if you had ambitions like he does."

"That's true."

There was a long, long silence, in which Barty thought Regulus must have fallen asleep, and began to wonder if he should follow suit.

"Hey, Crouch," Regulus' voice was hazy, half asleep.

"...What?"

"Turn around."

Barty hesitated, then rolled over on the lumpy mattress, facing the dark haired Black. Regulus' features were barely noticeable in the dark, but Barty could make out the hint of a smile, his dark grey eyes glinting.

"Lets be friends."

"You're joking."

"Why would I joke?" The smile vanished.

"No one wants to befriend the Slytherin Ministry-sucker..."

"Clearly untrue, seeing as I'm asking you now."

"....But you're _pure-blood_."

"So are you."

"Yeah. But...I thought..."

"You thought I was like all the other pure-bloods who think that you're only here under your fathers orders so that he can watch us all for future Death Eaters?"

"Not just that. In a history book the Black family are supposedly the most untainted bloodline in the wizarding world."

"Family, Shmamily."

The corners of Barty's mouth tugged upwards; he had to cover his mouth to stop himself sniggering out loud for the whole dormitory to hear.

"Okay."

"Friends?" Regulus held both of his hands out under the covers.

Barty swallowed. Surely this was a joke. But who was he to turn down friends? After a pause, he spoke. "Friends..." he held out his hand to Regulus, who clasped it in both of his.

Then his eyes closed and Barty became away that the elder was finally falling asleep. As Barty tried to turn around to attempt the same thing, his limb refused him. His hand, still gripped between Regulus', protested.

Once again, Barty fell to his familiar thoughts. Surely, surely this was a joke.

* * *

As Regulus Black wasn't particularly clever, at least not as clever as Barty Crouch Jr was, he was resitting a great deal of OWLs that he had failed to complete in his previous year. He wasn't the only student doing this; a large amount of sixth years fell back into fifth year classes by means of studying for the examinations.

Barty, who was beginning to doubt Regulus' declaration of friendship in the middle of the night several weeks back, couldn't help but think that this wasn't a better opportunity for Regulus to prove that he wasn't messing with Barty's head.

As if to answer Barty's thoughts, Regulus marched away from Dolohov, the Lestrange brothers and Avery, and flung his books down in the space beside Barty. This was proof alone that Barty wasn't imagining things, and Regulus really was the one who had continued sneaking into Barty's bed, even though the Meteolojinx had been lifted from his own.

His pale, slightly freckled face flushed slightly.

Regulus tapped him hard on the head with his wand. "Oi, Crouch, wake up! You're supposed to be the braniac. You can tell me what to do."

Barty knew that Regulus could hear the catcalls and jeers from his fellow sixth-years, but Regulus was ignoring them pointedly. He turned his back on the small group and looked Barty straight in the eye.

"You know, it's only them four that have a problem with you. Everyone else only ignores you because they don't want hassle from them for interacting with you."

Barty didn't know whether that was supposed to be a compliment. He took it as one, and immediately felt better.

* * *

Weeks later, months later, and Regulus was still continuing to sleep in Barty's bed.

One night, Barty dared to question him. Since the first time, with the jinx, they'd never spoken about it.

"Why do you continue to get in my bed, Reg...?"

There was a silence. If Regulus' breathing didn't forcibly slow down, Barty would have thought he was asleep.

"Reg..?"

"We're friends," Regulus said quickly.

Barty nodded slowly. He wasn't stupid, though. Even though he'd never been in such a friendship before, he knew that the arm around Barty's naked waist wasn't the kind of hug you gave a friend. He knew that the lips pressed to his collarbone weren't the kind of pecks and kisses shared between familiars. He most certainly was sure that the fingertips dancing to the waistline of his pyjama pants definitely, definitely weren't the touches distributed amongst companions.

But who was he to complain. He wasn't going to pass on friends.


End file.
